


world coming down

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, M/M, Sub!Lestat, candle wax, dom!Louis, kinky blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:26:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: Birthday lovemaking, involves candles. >:DUnspecified place & time, post-Merrick.





	world coming down

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [World Coming Down by Type O Negative](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Txxz4CzvKnQ). Written to that and the _Only Lovers Left Alive_ soundtrack haha. HASHTAG MOOD.

 

 _I will deny my role_  
_As a human_  
_Holding myself hostage_  
_With no demands_  
_It's better to burn_  
_Quickly and bright_  
_Than slowly and dull_  
_Without a fight_

_Type O Negative - World Coming Down_

* * *

 

 

Louis’s weight, caging in his hips the way it is, feels denser than it used to. Warmer. His frame is as lithe as it ever was, as it was the night he died, but Lestat can feel power in the muscles now in a way that he couldn’t before. He knows, deep somewhere, that it doesn’t matter--that Louis is still no match for him, that tonight’s compliance is a tribute and a game--but here in this moment it makes his breath catch in his throat.

“I thought about getting you birthday candles, you know,” Lestat says. He feels the hair prickling up on the back of his neck. Louis’s face doesn’t change, his eyes cool and calm, locking him there in place. Lestat is compliant, but that doesn’t negate the inherent brattiness. He cants his hips upward beneath Louis and raises an eyebrow. “It didn’t seem safe, though. I’m not sure I trust you.”

“Don’t you,” Louis mumbles. His hands are warm, fed, and he’s moving in agonizing human speed to unbutton Lestat’s shirt, even though he’s past that now. When he pushes the fabric aside, he lays a hand flat on Lestat’s chest and holds it there. His eyes narrow, and his palm begins to move in tiny circles along with the rhythm of the heartbeat. It’s unspoken between them, as it has to be, but they can both hear the way it thunders beneath Lestat’s ribs, thick and wet and heavy, and it reminds them both of that first time. Louis’s mouth parts, like he’s about to say something, but he stops himself. He leans back, settles against Lestat’s pelvis, and stares.

 _Of course I trust you,_ but he knows Louis won’t hear him. It’s odd to feel so exposed like this, spread out, tied down, and still have the last barrier to hide behind. He rolls his shoulders and the chains rattle against the bedframe--he has the strength to break free but perhaps at the expense of his own furniture--and the realization of how vulnerable he is strikes a chord in him that burns through his gut.

Joking about fire presses gently against a wound that is barely healed, but he’s willing to push, and he hopes that with every inch of his posture, the way he’s able to relax here, he can communicate that it’s okay. Of course, of course. He trusts Louis more than anybody.

But Louis seems receptive, maybe vaguely amused, even as his face remains a domineering, cold mask.

His fingers go rigid and his nails dig into Lestat’s skin.

“I find it very ironic, _Lestat_ ,” he says, and he leans forward. All of his weight drills into Lestat’s breastplate, enough force that could crush a mortal, and a stray black curl falls over his eyes as he gets in close. Lestat can see the new human blood inside, just beneath the surface, and feel the heat rolling off him. It’s hot in Louis’s breath as he whispers against Lestat’s ear. “...when you feign concern for your own safety.”

“Does it disappoint you?” Lestat chuckles nervously and stares up at the ceiling. “Did you want birthday candles? You can have anything you want, love.”

Warm kisses against the outside of his ear, then the corner of his jaw. Lestat bites his lip hard enough that it bleeds, and he can’t say with any certainty if it was an accident. Louis stiffens when the fragrance hits the air, but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing. And Lestat should know better, he knows. He frowns in frustration and sucks at his lip to make the blood gush more before it heals. Louis went so long without sharing his Blood. So long. The idea that he can be undone with such a tiny trick is laughable, but he’s not above trying. He turns his head to try to meet Louis’s lips, smearing blood across the smooth cheek, but Louis pulls away before Lestat can catch his mouth.

“Anything I want,” Louis repeats. It’s dim in the room but Lestat can see the green in his eyes as he stares down, and for a brief moment he sees the same vulnerability. There’s a look that’s asking _Is this all right?_ as the nails ease from Lestat’s skin, and he goes tense and weightless for a moment as if ready to spring back. _Yes yes yes_ , Lestat wants to say. By instinct he moves his arms, he wants to reach around, grab Louis by the backs of his thighs and pull him in closer, wants to sit up and take him. But the chains jerk against the bed frame, and there’s the sudden flush of helplessness that quickly burns into arousal. The smirk at the corner of Louis’s mouth is subtle but it’s there, and then it’s gone.

And instead of words, he conjures the answer in his blood, and it tingles in his head for a moment before the candles at the bedside come to life. Louis’s eyebrow raises in surprise and he turns his face to see. The flame glows orange against his skin and gleams in his eyes. Even now he seems surprised, impressed, and Lestat ponders where Louis’s strengths have landed. It’s rude to ask, and the curiosity feels shameful and wrong, but the awe on his face convinces Lestat that the Fire Gift has not yet been acquired.

And, _Thank God_ , he thinks. The idea of Louis with the Fire Gift makes him stifle a laugh. He bites his lip again to hold it in, and Louis presses a thumb against the wound, smearing it there until it heals.

“ _Brat_ ,” Louis whispers. It's flat and dull, like Lestat is meaningless to him, and Lestat feels it all over. He chases after Louis’s fingers with his mouth, trying to lick back his own blood, but Louis draws away, out of reach.

He pushes Lestat’s shirt the rest of the way open, hands lingering on hips, tracing the peaks and valleys of his ribs. Lestat glances down to watch. For the first time since… since the beginning?... their skin tones nearly match. It’s something that should feel horrifying, that usually fills him with dread, but now, tonight, it only makes him want to press closer. The artery flutters in Louis’s neck and Lestat’s thirst pitches. He wants it. Wants Louis closer, tighter, warmer.

No, not wants.

He _needs._

There’s a shift, and Louis’s hips roll down against him as he reaches over to the nightstand. When he settles again the candle is encircled by his fist. The flame dances between them, and even though his skin still shows evidence of the recent burn, the light this close reveals that he is something different. It’s the way he glows, the way he’s a little too perfect. Lestat lets out a whimper before he realizes he’s doing it, and Louis’s eye lock on him through the fire.

“What is it, Lestat?”

 _I need to taste you_ , he wants to say. _I need you._ But Louis sets the base of the candle against Lestat’s chest and he knows he shouldn’t ask. Louis strokes idly up and down the hard wax. He lingers at the top, where it’s gone softer, and his fingers leave indents. Lestat looks past it and watches Louis’s face. He knows that Louis has hovered too close to the flame when he grits his teeth, and they flash briefly in the light.

And the pain. Seeing it there on Louis’s face reminds Lestat of it, and that feeling never goes away, not really. From fire, from the sun. Heat like this makes him think of the stretching, cracked skin. Of tiny grains of desert sand that feel like shards of glass. His heart trips, and a crease forms in Louis’s forehead. He must be thinking it, too. But…

_He likes it._

There has been a chasm between them for years, and seeing the pain flash in Louis’s eyes makes him feel like they can close it. It’s rare, getting him like this. A wrong move, the wrong word, could shatter the scene, cause him to draw back. The fear, the memory of the fire, crawls across his skin, and his muscles go hard and tense as if his body, the Blood, wants to recoil on its own. But seeing the flame there in Louis’s hand, and the distant yet gentle look in his eyes, makes him still. The trust washes over in the same way the fear had.

The urge to weep is an almost-physical blow, as is the urge to laugh at himself for it. How, even in these carnal moments, is he always able to do this to himself? The love grows like cancer inside, eclipsing the parts of him that are supposed to feel wild and fun. If this were anyone else…

But it’s not.

Louis’s closed fist slides down the length of the candle until he has it by the base, and his mouth opens as he takes in a little gasp of air. His fangs are shining in the light as he tilts it forward.

The wax hits Lestat’s chest in a splash of red, and the sweet notes of pomegranate fill the air. The pain is sudden and sharp and he hisses into it. There’s a moment where the heat cuts through the Dark Gift, penetrates him for all his strength and makes him feel utterly human again. His skin blisters beneath it and he feels the sweat break out around his hairline, but it recedes as the pain dulls. His cells are stitching back together as the wax cools and gets hard. The edge of Louis’s nail scratches lightly to peel it away.

He’s not as uncertain anymore, Lestat can see. His posture is more fixed, confident. He seems focused. But the way his hands move is a tell. Careful. Loving. There’s sweetness in every gesture as he scrapes the wax away and touches the tender pink spot left behind. It’s the only warm space on Lestat’s body.

The second assault is longer, and pours enough that the wax drips down into his clavicle. He arches his back, and he pulls hard enough at the chains that it rattles the bedframe. Louis runs a hand slowly up Lestat’s side and over his shoulder, finally clasping him around the bicep. This strength is new in him, and the way he pins Lestat down to the mattress is thrilling. _It’s me_ , Lestat is thinking, and he’s gritting his teeth. _It’s my blood in you_.

Louis is leaning in close enough that the candle flame is singeing the skin on his chest, as well, and the color pulses in his eyes. He tilts it forward again, this time drawing it in the shape of a swirl. The fire comes low and close to Lestat’s nipple, and he has to clench his jaw to keep from wailing. He squirms, his hips twitch, but he stays flat. Compliant.

He might really cry this time.

It’s an instinct to try to probe Louis for his thoughts, the way he does to everyone else. But nothing, nothing, and the silence feels infinite. Eyes stinging and vision going red, swallowing hard around the need to flee, and Louis. _Louis_.

 _I want to show you_.

“Red looks good on you,” Louis says. “I hate admitting it. I hate telling you.”

He reaches to tuck Lestat’s hair away from his face. “Your ego is a beast that should not be fed.”

Rare to get Louis like this, this open. And Lestat’s wanted it for such a long time. _Such a long time._ This is a creature that lived inside, that was smouldering all along. And it took so long to coax it out.

The insecurity flares again, the vulnerability. Even in pain, he feels safe in Louis’s hands, but…

The silence, the heat. It’s ripping apart his calm and it feels so…

_Human._

There had been nights like this, hadn’t there? Before? There must have been. Exposed and flushed from sin, from love. The silence is cool and anchors him to the moment, and isn’t this what he wanted to save?

The red clears from his eyes and Louis’s face is above him. Patient, but Lestat can see the concern. It’s tucked below, but ready to be summoned. _Is this all right?_ he’s asking again, in the only way he can. _Are you all right?_

It makes him laugh. The next lash from the candle makes him arch his back, and the laughter rolls out dry and choked. Is he all right? Excellent question.

_But I deserve this._

Even warmed from the kill, Louis’s hands feel cool against the burns. He presses palms flat against the healing skin and it tingles there between them. _I deserve it._

“Please,” he finally says. The word is strained, cracking. “Please, Louis.”

“Please,” Louis repeats. Dull. His eyebrow arches in appraisal.

“I need you, please Louis. I’ll be good.”

Louis actually chuckles. He rests his weight in the hand on Lestat’s chest as he moves to put the candle back.

“You’ll be good,” he says.

“I promise.”

Laughter again, dark and quiet, but he’s folding himself down over Lestat’s body, brushing the unruly blonde curls away from his neck. He pulls off a stray splash of wax before laying a kiss against the throbbing artery. He licks against it and runs a hand through Lestat’s hair, cupping the back of his skull.

It’s humiliating that Lestat is ready to beg. He stares up at the tester and the urge to plead comes out as a strangled whine. It’s humiliating to love someone this much. It suddenly makes him feel small.

And time slows when he feels the tips of Louis’s fangs. _Oh, God. Oh God_. They’re small but he feels all of it. And the contrast of the soft lips coming down around the wound, catching the blood. Louis’s tongue presses on the edge of the holes, taking a moment to taste, to linger there, before pressing deeper. At first, his teeth block the bloodflow, and the sensation is blooming outward. It swells to his head, his gut, burns in the palms of his hands. But then he eases out, and begins to suck at the opened stream.

There’s images flowing through, and it’s the only time he’ll see them. There’s too much to make sense of, and some of it hurts the way the bite does. But oh. _Oh_. Louis moans, right next to his ear, and he’s tempted to destroy the bedframe to embrace him.

But no. He won’t. His mouth falls open and his voice is an unintelligible tangle. _Do you know? Can you feel it now?_ His fingers twitch and hands ball into fists. Louis’s hand grazes down the side of his head, cups his cheek. The pain is a given but he’s moving in a way that feels delicate. And the past is a wound that is barely healed. But for all the uncertainty, there is love here.

 _You’re the only one_ , he wants to say. He hopes the images say it for him. _The only one left_.

There have been others, but…

“Please, Louis,” he manages. _Please._

Louis’s tongue laps his throat, flat and wide, warm and wet, and then probes at the puncture marks as they begin to heal. When the blood is gone he remains, still, breathing there against the skin.

“Please what, Lestat?”

“Let me taste you, please.”

“Hmm,” Louis sounds relaxed, and there’s a moment when Lestat fears that the scene is over, the game is done. He wonders if the Blood showed them too much.

But Louis sits up, and the tone is still there. The color in his face is deeper, more robust, and Lestat finds himself writhing at the sight. His Blood. His Blood inside. Louis squeezes his legs tighter around Lestat’s waist.

“I think you don’t deserve it,” he says. He holds his wrist out, above Lestat’s face, but when Lestat tries to bite he pulls away.

“Please, Louis.” He’s panting and ready to weep again. Frantic. Humiliating.

“Tell me,” Louis says. He rubs the veins on his wrist with his other hand, preparing it maybe. “Say it.”

“I need you,” eyes going red again. “Louis, please. I love you.”

_I love you._

He hears the way Louis’s skin tears, and his teeth are stained by blood when he pulls away and tilts his head back. The blood drips down onto Lestat’s chest the way the wax did, leaves a trail and makes a mess on the way upwards. Louis stretches and flexes his fingers over Lestat’s face, and it hits his cheek before it hits his mouth. A drop hits his tongue and his shoulders come off the bed, arching up for more, but Louis stays out of his reach.

And this is it, his world coming down. Tears gather in his eyelashes and he blinks hard to clear them.

“Tell me,” he says again.

His mind is scrambling and he’s trying to savor the taste of Louis in his mouth. Even the one drop, unsatisfying as it may be, is vivid and familiar and _Louis_ and _Lord God what does he want me to say?_ Is it not enough to beg, and to need, and love? He digs his nails into his own palms to resist tearing the furniture apart.

Louis turns his wrist, gracefully, so that it won’t drip against Lestat.

“Lestat,” his voice is soft, like he’s speaking to a child. “Tell me, and you can have it.”

He’s the only one, the last one left. And…

The pain lingers, the burn.

His throat is dry.

Louis’s eyebrows raise, expectant, and it’s a game but his resolve will wilt soon. The connection is healing but still frail. He knows Louis can hear how hard is heart is beating.

“I…” he licks his lips for the final taste that’s left. And it’s gone. He’s gone. “I’m sorry.”

Louis stills.

“I’m sorry. Louis, I’m _sorry_. Please.”

The way Louis’s mouth quirks into a half-grin breaks his heart, and mends it, and his head goes light, and his arms strain against the binds. But then he twists his hand, languid, and presses the almost-healed gash to Lestat’s lips.

It’s not even a full mouthful before the skin pulls itself together, and Lestat’s moan is low and sultry and completely lewd, shameful, a complete disgrace, as he tears it back open. The spurt of blood hits the roof of his mouth and he can’t believe he’s waited this long.

 _He tastes the same_.

Rich, and red. _Thick._ Lestat trembles. Hot.

There’s power now in the Blood--his natural age plus the elixir of Lestat’s own mixed in--and it’s dizzying, exquisite, makes him swoon. But it’s still Louis, beneath all of it. There’s that same flavor, the same balmy darkness, just like the first night. Even as a feverish, lost human. The same taste of his very soul.

Lestat surrenders completely.

There are lives here between them, centuries, in a way that feels terrifying and so familiar. So warm. He lets his head fall back against the pillows and licks the blood from his lips, his teeth, the soft skin inside his cheeks. He closes his eyes and sees stars.

Louis moves slowly, agonizingly human, to undo the chains. He sets them aside and curls against Lestat, head over his heart. There are still flecks of wax on his skin and scattered in the sheets, but Louis doesn’t seem to mind. It still smells like fruit.

Lestat pets Louis’s curls away from his face. From this angle he sees the way the thick black lashes settle there, closed against his cheek. There’s a light inside him, something inhuman, something graceful and intoxicating and all together enchanting, but the face is the same. The same Louis he saw, unshaven and broken, ready to embrace Death. The same face. Watching it makes him _ache_.

The glimpse through the Blood is over and it’s silent again. Quiet, expansive. Black. But it feels safe. He kisses the top of Louis’s head.

“The sun is coming up soon, _mon cher_ ,” he whispers. “We should go.”

Louis rubs his face against Lestat’s pectoral, and squeezes in tighter.

“Just a little longer.”

 


End file.
